


Fault Line

by hollyhawke, shmabs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marvel Universe Big Bang 2014, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyhawke/pseuds/hollyhawke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmabs/pseuds/shmabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Sam set off to find Bucky, but when the leads dry up the rescue mission turns into a road trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fault Line

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the 2014 Marvel Bang; we would like to thank [Madi](archiveofourown.org/user/wildewinged) for the beta read. We couldn't have done it without you! We'd also like to thank [Perry](www.jeanenjolras.livejournal.com), our incredible artist, whose work can be found here. [link TBA]
> 
>  **Warnings for this fic include:** PTSD, depression, anxiety attacks, and alcohol use.  
>  If you'd like further information about things in this fic that could be triggering, please don't hesitate to message us!

Steve is fine.

 

Well, he’s a little tired and a lot hungry, but he’s been driving for almost seven hours straight so he figures he’s doing pretty good under the circumstances.

 

He and Sam have been on the road for a little over a week now, tracking down leads and potential leads and things that are almost certainly not leads but that they follow up on anyway, because Steve is as determined as he rarely ever gets and Sam is a solid presence at his side.

 

They’re in Texas now, or at least he thinks they are.  He remembers seeing a cheerful, if faded, “Welcome to Texas!” sign a few miles back - or maybe it had been a few hundred miles back. It’s getting harder for him to keep track. The countryside (although it doesn’t really seem much like countryside to him, just wide dirt plains with a few sparse shrubs struggling to survive) flashes by on either side of the little prius Sam had insisted they use for the journey.

 

It’s midday and Sam is snoring lightly in the passenger seat, and when Steve looks down at the speedometer it takes him longer than it should to realize that he’s going over a hundred. He doesn’t slam on the brakes - he might be tired but he’s not _stupid_ \- instead carefully easing his foot off the gas and allowing the car to slow until he’s going a much more respectable seventy-five in a seventy.

 

Steve is fine, but maybe he should let Sam take over for a little while.

 

He nudges Sam’s shoulder with his own (this Prius is fucking tiny, ok, he feels like he’s in a really gas-efficient clown car) and Sam lets out a loud snort before blinking his eyes open slowly.

 

“Wassit?” Sam asks blearily, and Steve can’t help the smile that comes over his face.

 

“Sorry to wake you, but I was wondering if you could take over driving for a bit. I’m getting a little tired.” He tries to keep his voice light, tries to make it seem as if it’s not a big deal, as if he wasn’t just speeding madly down the road for who knows how long and didn’t even notice it. Thankfully, Sam just knuckles at his eyes and nods his head, rubbing a hand over his face briefly.

 

“Yeah, yeah ‘course, man, ‘course.” Sam sits up more fully, stretching his neck back and forth and sighing when it makes a sharp crack. “You seen any signs for a Starbucks lately? I’d kill for a mocha frappuccino right about now.”

 

Steve makes a face because he’ll never understand how Sam (or anyone, really) can enjoy the sugar-filled, artificially flavored monstrosities that are considered coffee in the 21st century.

 

Sam must notice because he scoffs at Steve and says, in a voice that doesn’t sound anything like Steve’s, “I can’t believe people actually _enjoy_ coffee now; back in my day a cuppa joe wasn’t good unless it scalded your throat and tasted like tar.”

 

Steve splutters because that’s ridiculous, he would never say anything like that, and he lets Sam know. “That’s ridiculous, I’ve never said anything like that!”

 

Sam just laughs at him, loud and lovely, and it eases something in Steve’s chest that he hadn’t even noticed was there until it was gone. That’s Sam in a nutshell, really, always making Steve laugh and smile and feel like an actual human instead of a weapon used by a corrupt government agency, just by being himself.

 

He pulls over at the next exit that boasts a Starbucks and pays for Sam’s unhealthy sugary milkshake masquerading itself as coffee and Sam doesn’t say a single thing after the quick “Thank you” he throws Steve’s way, just smiles a quiet little smile and hops in the drivers seat so Steve can nap.

 

He falls asleep to the soothing sound of Sam humming along to the radio.

 

 

 

Steve is fine but sometimes he wakes up crying.

 

He learned a long time ago how to cry quietly, how to force his body into stillness when all it wanted to do was heave and shudder and shake. He doesn’t think about Bucky and the way he had never quite mastered it, always letting out involuntary little sobs that Steve pretended he didn’t hear. Steve tries not to think about Bucky because it hurts more than the bullets that were lodged in his abdomen, because he knows that the man he’s looking for isn’t the same man that he’s gonna find.

 

He hears a noise, something low and wet, and realizes that it’s coming from Sam. Sam is crying, obviously doing his best not to wake Steve, but Steve’s always been a light sleeper, had to be if he wanted to wake up before he wheezed himself to death ‘cause Bucky sure as hell wasn’t gonna do it. Steve looks over at the comforter-covered lump of Sam’s bed and for a second all he can see are thin gray walls and an old cot pushed into the corner, shaking just enough to cause the uneven legs to beat out a quick tempo.

 

A blink and it’s gone, the tiny apartment that he and Bucky had shared fading back to the shitty motel that he and Sam got for the night.

 

He thinks maybe he should let Sam know that he’s awake, cough or turn on the lamp or something, but then he realizes that he doesn’t know if Sam is the kind of person that wants to be comforted when he’s upset or if he’s the kind of person that wants to be left alone. It takes Steve aback for a moment, the sudden realization that there’s so much he doesn’t know about Sam. For all that Steve knows Sam’s fighting style, knows that Sam drinks his orange juice right out of the carton, knows that Sam always puts away his dirty clothes but leaves his socks lying around, there are a million things that Steve doesn’t have the faintest clue about.

 

Does Sam have any siblings? When is Sam’s birthday? Does he like chocolate cake or does he prefer vanilla? Or strawberry? Why does he cry? Steve’s never thought to ask.

 

He turns over on the narrow, too-soft bed and shuts his eyes, tries to block out Sam’s quiet sniffling and sink back into the uneasy sleep that is the only real rest he gets. He’ll start asking Sam questions tomorrow, maybe make it into a game so the miles and miles of blank, empty asphalt will be less monotonous.

 

Steve’s last thought before he falls asleep is simply, “I bet Sam loves dancing…”

 

 

 

“Favorite color?”

 

“Red, white and blue, all day.”

 

Steve huffs a laugh. “C’mon Sam, be serious.”

 

“I am serious! I love me some American flag - especially when it’s wrapped around such a fine ass.”

 

“Wha - that’s not - I mean, shit.”

 

Sam laughs, glancing over at Steve in the passenger seat, big hands hiding his face from view.

 

“Next question,” Steve mumbles into his hands and Sam just shrugs. He’ll never understand people that don’t put all their cards on the table at once. If he thinks something, usually he says it, unless he knows it’ll have an ill effect on the other person.

 

“Okay,” Sam starts, drumming his fingers on the wheel and accelerating to get past a slow-moving school bus. He’s about to ask the ever-important first kiss question when he hears muffled yelling, and for a second he’s back in Afghanistan, Riley’s screams loud and gut wrenching in his ears, but then he realizes that it’s just the kids on the bus. One of them must have recognized Captain America, riding along beside them in a tiny green Prius, and decided that hollering at the top of their lungs was the best way to get his attention.

 

They’re not wrong. Steve’s got his face pressed against the glass, and Sam can’t tell but he’s sure the idiot’s smiling and making faces at the kids. Sam wishes he would smile for his own sake more often, but he’s working on it.

 

He slows down so they’re driving alongside the bus for a few minutes, makes sure all the kids get an eyeful of Captain America in his new Falcon t-shirt - something that Steve ordered for himself as soon as he heard about them, thank you very much _Natasha_ \- before speeding up and passing them completely. They really can’t spend too much time dawdling on the road like that since their newest lead on Barnes is only good for a few more hours at most, and they’re still six hours out from the location.

 

There’s a moment where Steve leans back in his seat, eyes closed and the corners of his mouth turned up in a soft smile, and Sam would swear on his mother’s sweet potato pie that his heart stops. A breathe, a soft exhalation from Steve’s parted lips, and the moment’s gone, smile replaced by Steve’s perpetual almost-frown.

 

He nudges Steve’s shoulder with his own, causing Steve to crack an eye open, and gives him the brightest smile he can muster up. “Alright Cap, it’s my turn for questions. Prepare yourself.”

 

Steve shrugs and, while the smile doesn’t come back, the permanent furrow between his brows gets less severe, so Sam counts that as a win.

 

“What Hogwarts house would you be sorted into? And don’t try and tell me that you haven’t read the Harry Potter books yet because I swear to god I will find the nearest bookstore and make you buy them all.” That gets a laugh out of Steve, small and rusty sounding but still there.

 

“Clint made me get them, and then he wouldn’t stop hovering over my shoulder - well, hanging out of the air ducts is probably more accurate - while I read them. He said I was “a Gryffindor through and through, with a bald eagle patronus probably,” but I dunno, I feel like more of a Hufflepuff, honestly.”

 

 

 

Steve is...not so fine, today. But it doesn’t really matter because this is nothing, because he’s had worse and Bucky _has_ worse right now, running and running and running, alone and scared and _all alone_ so it doesn’t matter that Steve’s not fine, that his hands won’t stop shaking even though it’s the middle of August. It just matters that he keeps looking, keeps following the clues that he knows Bucky’s been leaving for them. That’s all that matters.

 

 

 

 

“We’re gonna find him.”

 

Today is a pretty okay day. Steve only woke up in the middle of the night once and his hands are only shaking a little and some raw desperate part of him has found some hope to cling to and he’s clinging to it with everything he’s got.

 

The last few weeks have been a series of near misses. A man matching Bucky’s description was seen near an abandoned building in Topeka, and when they get there, he’s gone, but there are clear signs that the building had been lived in. There are snatches of him on security cameras, once-operational HYDRA bases mysteriously empty, coordinates from Natasha where he’s been but isn’t anymore. They’ve been one step behind him this whole time and they’re so close to finding him that Steve can taste it. It’s a heady feeling, and he can barely stand it.

 

“We are, you know,” he insists. “Gonna find him.”

 

Sam’s still silent, so he says, “Come on. He’s been leaving us breadcrumbs since we left DC. The Winter Soldier knows how to disappear without leaving a trace. This? This is Bucky, and he wants to be found. I know he does.”

 

“If you say so,” Sam says, somewhat reluctantly. He shrugs. “You know him better than I do.”

 

“We’re gonna find him,” Steve repeats again, mostly for himself this time.

 

 

 

Steve calls Natasha from time to time. Sometimes she picks up, sometimes she doesn’t. One of the first times he managed to get ahold of her since they parted ways, she told him that Clint had been on a deep cover assignment in Europe when SHIELD went down, and that his covers were most likely all blown thanks to the info dump and his handlers HYDRA, dead, or otherwise in no position to help him. She tells him that she’s been working with Maria to try and coordinate extractions for the agents who’d been stranded, better late than never, after all, and that she was going after Clint.

 

That had been two weeks ago, and he’s heard nothing but the occasional set of coordinates from her since, except one text that simply read “Paris is nice this time of year. You should see it. :)” He’s seen Paris, but that was a long time ago, and he wouldn’t mind seeing it again. He texts her back and tells her that. She doesn’t reply.

 

He hopes she and Clint are having a romantic rendezvous and drinking lots of authentic champagne, but he knows it’s unlikely. It’s a nice thought, though. She’d still been wearing the arrow necklace when she left.

 

He tries calling her every few days, and when it goes to voicemail, he leaves a message. He never really knows what to say, so he usually starts by updating her on their progress, even if there usually isn’t much to report. Then maybe he’ll ask her some questions that he knows will go unanswered - if she’s safe, if she’ll be back stateside soon? - and if he’s feeling particularly bold, he’ll tell her they miss her. All he can do is hope she’s listening.

 

“Any luck getting ahold of her?” Sam asks. Steve’s in the passenger seat, with Sam driving, staring a little disconsolately at his phone.

 

He shrugs.

 

“Nah,” he says, twirling the phone between his fingers. He wants to throw it out the window.

 

Sam just sighs instead of answering. He’s been worried about Natasha; they both have, and it was so painfully obvious that she took what happened in DC hard, but if she won’t or can’t answer the phone, there’s nothing they can do about it.

 

Steve resists the urge to try again.

 

 

 

Sam gets up in the middle of the night to pee just about every night, sometime between about two and four, by Steve’s reckoning. He knows this; when they’re sharing a room, it’s hard not to hear him even if he’s doing his best to be quiet, and it usually wakes him up if he wasn’t already awake. He doesn’t mind.

 

Keeping that in mind, he probably should have laid back down when he heard Sam getting out of bed, but by the time he tries to make himself move, it’s too late and the light of the bathroom is illuminating him. Sam goes to close the door, and then pauses.

 

“Steve?” he asks, looking confused. “Are you still up?” He shakes his head. “I’m gonna pee,” he decides. “Hold that thought.”

 

It’s not like Steve’s going anywhere, so when Sam reemerges from the bathroom, he’s still sitting there. He’s just been spiraling, thinking over one thing after another and wondering if there was anything he could have done differently and reliving the especially painful bits.

 

Sam takes a seat opposite him, on his own bed.

 

“So,” he says. “Why are you still up?”

Steve just shrugs.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sam prods.

“Something like that,” Steve admits.

Sam’s silent for a minute, waiting to see if Steve will say something first, clearly. When he doesn’t, Sam sighs.

“You have a lot of sleepless nights?” he asks.

Steve just shrugs again. It’s hard to come up with words tonight - it feels like a monumental effort and his tongue feels heavy, so he just doesn’t.

“Anything you wanna talk about?” Sam tries again.

Steve just shakes his head. “Nah,” he answers. “Go back to sleep, Sam.”

He can practically feel the look Sam is giving him; he resists the urge to squirm, and instead stares at his own hands until he hears Sam sigh, lay down, and pull the covers over himself.

“Good night, Steve,” he says. Steve can tell the conversation isn’t over, but it’s a reprieve.

 

“Night, Sam.”

 

 

 

They’re camped out at another shitty motel in another shitty town when the metaphorical shit hits the very real, shitty overhead fan.

 

Steve is dicing onions in the little motel kitchenette - about three times the size his and Bucky’s apartment used to be, back before Bucky got shipped off and his whole life went to hell - when the knife he’s using slips in his too-big hands. There’s a hot line of pain running down his pointer finger but when he looks it’s already healed, the only thing remaining a bright smear of red red blood.

 

He sits down hard on the cold linoleum, and for a terrifying minute he can’t breathe, can’t get the air into his weak lungs and god, Bucky’s not here, Bucky always knew what to do when Steve couldn’t catch his breath, was always there with a warm cloth and a steady hand on the back of his neck telling him what to do and Steve _can’t breathe_.

 

The knife he’s still holding clatters onto the floor and he hears Sam from about a thousand miles away saying, “Steve? Shit, Steve, what happened? Is that _blood_? Steve? _Steve_?”

 

He’s lost inside his head but it’s nice; he doesn’t have to think or, worse, _remember_ , he can just float and float and float and maybe his lungs are getting tight again but it’s fine, _he’s_ fine, this new body that isn’t (that never will be) his can handle it.

 

There’s someone far away, shaking him, but he ignores it, just tries to sink deeper into his head; he doesn’t have to worry about anything there.

 

For a moment it’s pure bliss, no loud noises that make him twitch his hand towards his shield, no reminder of his long dead (but still alive) best friend, no orders that he knows he has to follow - nothing.

 

And then, as everything in Steve’s life seems to do, it all goes to shit. The blessed blankness in his mind crumbles and he’s suddenly all too aware that his lungs are burning and his eyes are prickling and he can’t seem to stop shaking. He’s always been the strong one, the one that pushed through and squared his shoulders and moved mountains because he had to, because if he didn’t he and Bucky would starve. It wasn’t hard for Bucky (which isn’t fair, Steve knows it’s not fair to think that way but he can’t help himself) because he was strong and charming and could always get work down at the shipyards, could always put money towards food _and_ rent, whereas Steve could barely make the rent each month, running errands for old Mrs. O’Callaghan and shining shoes over on Fifth Ave. He can’t break down like this; there are people relying on him, people that need him to be whole and healthy and _not fucked up_.

 

He takes a breath.

 

Another.

 

Noises start filtering past the blood rushing in his ears.

 

A voice – _Sam_ – murmuring something soft and lilting to his left.

 

There’s a hand on his back, stroking down his spine and back up, something his mother used to do when his lungs were acting up and wouldn’t let him breathe.

 

Breathe.

 

Another breath.

 

He opens his eyes to the shitty motel cabinets, blurry because his eyes are still wet with tears. A few blinks and they’re gone. Now he can see in detail all the dings and scrapes that cover the grimy white cabinets. He never thought he’d relate to cabinetry, but fuck if his heart doesn’t clench just looking at the once-white cupboard front. He knows he wasn’t ever the perfect, pristine soldier that the Army liked to advertise him as – he lived in a shithole apartment scrounging for rent and then went onto the front lines of a war, he’s not a paragon of virtue any more than Tony Stark is – but now he can feel every scratch and stain and nick on his tired (so, so tired) soul.

 

“Steve?” Sam’s voice is quiet, subdued. Steve doesn’t want to see the pity sure to be on his face, so he wraps his arms around his knees and shoves his head into the little dark space he’s made with his body.

 

“I’m sorry.”  He’s got his mouth mashed against the top of his knee, so it comes out muffled to the point of incoherence. He turns his face, just enough so he’s no longer talking directly into his kneecap, and repeats it. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No.” Steve’s head comes up of its own volition and his eyes, squeezed tight to hold back more tears, pop open. He stares at Sam, whose hand is still making a slow circuit up and down his back, and can’t muster up the energy to do anything else. He hasn’t been this exhausted since World War II, when it was day after day of endless marching through muddy fields and bombed out towns. At least then he could lay down on rocks or grass or, sometimes, sitting up against a tree and actually sleep.  Fuck, he wishes he could sleep.

 

“Steve,” Sam says again, to get his attention.  Steve’s been drifting again, and he hadn’t noticed. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

 

Steve tries to think of something to say in response, he really does, but he has nothing. He blinks slowly a couple times, then shrugs wordlessly.

 

“Can I take a nap?”

 

He just hopes Sam knows what he’s really asking, which is ‘can we talk about this later?’ He distantly knows he’s being rude, but he can’t quite bring himself to have this conversation. It’s too much, and he really just wants to sleep. He’s not sure he can manage anything else right now.

 

Sam just shoots him an appraising look, then sighs.

 

“I’ll be right here,” he points to the kitchen table, “if you need me.”

 

 

 

“We’ve gotta talk about this,” Sam says. Steve took his nap, and woke up and showered and got dressed and he feels a little more like a human being again. Maybe prepared to have that conversation.

 

He doubts it, but it’s not like he didn’t know it was coming, so he just sighs and says  “Yeah, I know.”

 

He’s sitting on the bed, right where he was twelve hours ago. They didn’t make it out to do any of the investigating they’d wanted to get done today - Sam had told him firmly that it could wait until tomorrow, and Steve had been too apathetic to argue. He feels almost pleasantly numb, like somebody had scraped his personality out and left him without all the painful bits for a little while.

 

“What’s been going on with you?” Sam sits opposite him and rests his elbows on his knees, looking at him expectantly. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well,” he continues, clearly aware that such an open-ended question is not going to go over well with Steve, “but is that the first anxiety attack you’ve had?”

 

Steve blinks, and even though it’s a yes or no question he feels like it’s far away, and he has to think about the answer for a minute.

 

“No,” he says finally, thickly. “One other.”

 

“When?” Sam’s clearly concerned now, because he’s been with Steve more or less constantly since he woke up in the hospital weeks ago. Steve shrugs.

 

“You were,” he pauses, swallowing. “Getting groceries. Not as bad as this one. Oh,” he pauses again, frowning. “Guess I had a couple before, too,” he waves a hand vaguely, like that should explain what he means by ‘before.’

 

Sam frowns. “Before?”

 

“After I...woke up,” Steve clarifies. “That was… a shitty week.”

 

Sam’s silent for a few seconds, lips pursed and regarding Steve thoughtfully.

 

“You know it’s totally normal to have anxiety attacks, right?” he finally says bluntly. “What you went through, with SHIELD and Bucky, and before… that’s hard stuff. It’s not the kind of thing you just get over in a day, or a week, or a month.” He pauses again. “In a way, I think I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t having a bad time.” He fixes Steve with a steely look. “You’ve been having a bad time, don’t pretend you haven’t. I know it.” He sighs. “But Steve, if you weren’t having a bad time of it, it’d just mean you were repressing everything, and that’s,” he shakes his head, “no good at all.”

 

“I don’t have time for ‘having a bad time,’ Sam,” Steve says sharply, and it’s the most emotion he’s managed to muster up in the last two hours. It startles Sam just a bit before he can compose himself. “I don’t have time,” Steve repeats. “SHIELD is gone, Natasha’s in the wind, I have no idea if Clint is safe or not, HYDRA is everywhere, and _Bucky_ ,” he trails off. “I don’t have time for it,” he repeats again.

 

“Whoa, whoa, hold the fuck up,” Sam says. “You can’t just compartmentalize that, for one thing. Repressing stuff is _bad_ , Steve.”

 

“Sure I can,” says Steve mulishly, refusing to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam sighs.

 

“Look, maybe no one told you this, but it’s not your job to save everyone, all right?” Sam says. “You’ve gotta let go of some of the responsibility. Natasha can take care of herself _and_ Clint. There are people dealing with the SHIELD thing, and they’ve got Stark on their side, and there are people dealing with the HYDRA thing, too. You and I are dealing with Bucky, but you, Steve? You’ve gotta take care of yourself. And not just in the eating enough food and getting enough sleep way.”

 

Steve doesn’t answer him.

 

“Look at me,” says Sam, and he waits until Steve does, albeit reluctantly. “This doesn’t just go away if you ignore it. I’m not gonna try and make you talk to me, but if you want to, we can.”

 

“What can I do to help you?” he asks, sitting up and clasping his hands together in his lap.

 

Steve’s quiet for a moment, blinking.

 

“Don’t leave me alone,” he manages, finally. “The anxiety….it’s worse when I’m alone.”

 

“Okay.” Sam doesn’t comment, but his face softens a little around the edges. “How about when you’re having an anxiety attack? What can I do then that would help?”

 

“I think,” Steve clears his throat. “I think I’d like to be touched.” It feels like admitting a secret. “It always used to help when I had asthma attacks. And...talk to me, I guess. Like you did.”

 

“Okay,” agrees Sam. He stands up, stretching. “Look man, just promise me you won’t bottle it up, okay? I’m on your team here.”

 

Steve just nods.

 

 

 

Steve has been sleeping peacefully for once, actually dreaming, silly, nonsense dreams about giant bubbles and miniature squids, when this week’s burner phone rings shrilly. He’s a light sleeper, a habit left over from fighting on the front lines where he had to teach himself to wake at the slightest noise, so he doesn’t stand a chance against a shitty flip phone blasting the Space Jam theme song. Also, the knowledge that only Natasha has the number makes him bolt upright and grab for it, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

 

There’s no greeting, no “Hey, how ya doin’?” Just Natasha’s clipped voice over the phone telling him, “I’ve got a location on Barnes but it’s only good for the next seven hours.”

 

He throws the comforter off his legs and leaps across the room to Sam’s bed, shaking his shoulder and getting a sleepy grunt in response.

 

“Bucky’s been spotted,” he says, trying to find a pen and paper so he can write down the coordinates that Nat is ratting off into his ear. His hands are shaking.

 

“Shit, okay, lemme put on some pants and then we can get on the road.”

 

Steve nods and makes a noise of triumph when he opens one of the dresser drawers and sees a pen and a pad of paper with the motel’s logo stamped on them.

 

“Okay,” he says into the phone, held between his shoulder and cheek.

 

Sam’s across the room, stuffing clothes and all the little knickknacks that they’ve picked up along the way into their bags. There’s a deck of cards that they bought in Virginia, a pair of shot glasses Sam found at a kiosk in Arkansas, a Black Widow bobble-head Steve couldn’t resist buying at a little gas station while they were passing through Pennsylvania.

 

“Steve?” He hears faintly, and realizes that he’s been spacing out. Again. Shit.

 

“Yeah Nat, sorry, I’m here. What are the coordinates again?”  He’s ready this time, scribbling down Bucky’s location quickly.  If his penmanship is a little messier than usual, well, Sam doesn’t have to know until after they’ve found Bucky.

 

It feels like it takes Sam hours to check them out, wearing an apologetic smile and all the charm he can muster, but really it’s only about fifteen minutes. It probably would have been quicker if Steve had gone up and flashed the tired receptionist his patented (not literally, although he’s sure the Army would have tried it if they possibly could have) Captain America grin, but he honestly doesn’t know if he has the energy to smile right now, and Sam had already been on his way to the desk before Steve could think to stop him.

 

They’re on the road now, speeding through the Montana countryside, the sky huge and overwhelming above them. Steve feels like he’s being swallowed alive, like he could drive for hours in the inky blackness of the Montana night and be right back where he started come morning. He’s so small in this moment, overlarge body still just a speck lost in the grand scheme of the universe, that his eyes water and his chest constricts and the only thing keeping him from cracking into a million fragments and scattering into the great unknown is the knowledge that _Bucky needs him._

 

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel and his foot presses on the accelerator. He can worry about the vastness of the universe later. Now, he has to hold himself together long enough to help Bucky.

 

“Alright, it looks like he’s hitting another HYDRA base, this time in North Dakota. It’d take us about eight hours to get there if we went the speed limit, but since you’re obviously not a fan of following the rules, it looks like we’ll arrive in roughly six and a half.”

 

“Natasha said he’ll only be there for seven hours and we already wasted time checking out of the hotel so now I’ve got to make up for it.” Steve doesn’t mean to sound so angry, but his body feels coiled up tight enough to snap from the tension, and this seems to be the only release.

 

“Look, I know that you want to find him, I get that; if I found out Riley was still alive I’d go to the ends of the earth to get him back. But you can’t push yourself so hard that you break and alienate the people that care about you. And that looks like what you’re doing right now,” Sam tells him, sounding entirely too patient and understanding.

 

Steve wishes he had one of his specially reinforced punching bags.

 

“I already told you,” he gets out through gritted teeth, “I don’t have time to be fucked up.”

 

“I don’t care.” Sam’s voice is hard and unyielding, so unlike his usual gentle tone that Steve can’t think of anything to say in response. Sam continues. “Honestly, Steve, I don’t care about Bucky Barnes right now – for one thing, you’re caring about him enough for both of us – I care about what you’re doing to yourself. You’ve got anxiety and PTSD and a hell of a guilt complex and, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this yet, but I’m not your fucking therapist. I’m your friend, and I care about you, and you still won’t tell me when you’re on the verge of a goddamn anxiety attack.”

 

Shit. Steve hadn’t thought it had been that obvious, but apparently Sam had noticed his little almost-freak out earlier.

 

“That was nothing,” he lies, trying to deflect Sam’s attention away from himself. It doesn’t work.

 

“Look man, you don’t wanna talk to me right now, spill your guts, that’s fine. But don’t fucking lie to my face, because I’m not stupid.”

 

Steve is silent. Sam sighs, releases a big gust of air that leaves him looking small and weary in its wake. Steve still doesn’t have any clue what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

 

“I’m not gonna abandon you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sam starts quietly. “I think you’re pushing yourself too hard trying to track down a guy that pretty obviously doesn’t wanna be found, and I think you’re ignoring all of your very real, very noticeable issues because you don’t think you deserve to take care of yourself. But I’m not gonna leave you. So if you wanna chase Barnes across the continent, well, I’ll be there with you the whole way. I can’t promise that I won’t get pissed at you for not taking care of yourself, and you can be damn well sure that I’m gonna point out when you’re being a goddamn idiot, but I’ll support you no matter what. So just, please. For my sake and Barnes’s sake if not for your own, treat yourself a little kinder and just _talk_ to me. Not as a therapist, but as a friend. Please.”

 

Steve lets out a shaky breath and nods his head slightly. He doesn’t know how good he’ll be at looking out for himself, but for Bucky and for Sam, he’ll try.

 

“Thank you,” Sam whispers, gripping Steve’s shoulder reassuringly, and goes back to looking out the window at the endless Montana night.

 

They miss Bucky by mere minutes.

 

Steve cries all the way to their next shitty motel, Sam’s hand a comforting presence on his knee.

 

 

 

 

When Steve drops his duffel bag on the bed closest to the door in their latest shitty motel and announces that he’s going to the bar across the street, Sam crosses his arms and just looks at him for a second.

 

“I thought you couldn’t get drunk,” he says, finally, but Steve shrugs.

 

“I only had one bottle of liquor the last time I tried,” Steve counters, and Sam raises his eyebrows.

 

“That’s a lotta booze,” he comments, and Steve shrugs again.

 

“I’ve got a Stark Industries credit card,” he says.

 

“Stark won’t mind?”

 

Steve snorts. “Doubt he’ll even notice, and if he does, he’ll just want to know how much it took. For science.”

 

Sam’s silent for a minute. “That’s not exactly what I’d call a healthy coping mechanism, you know.”

 

They’d missed Bucky again that afternoon, and Steve isn’t that interested in healthy.

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m coming with you,” Sam says, sighing. Steve bites back a comment about Sam not being his keeper, but only just. He’d rather have the company than fight with the only person who’s on his side right now.

 

The girl tending the bar seems to recognize Steve at least, because she only raises her eyebrows a little when he asks for an entire bottle of the most potent vodka to start him off. Sam flashes his ID and smiles apologetically, making a mental note to tip her generously at the least. The bar is nearly empty; it’s late enough to be past the dinner rush, but still early, and there are only a few people who seem to be regulars sitting at the bar.

 

Steve gets them a booth. Sam does a couple shots, but then switches to soda, because he can tell that Steve is actually starting to get tipsy and he figures it’s probably important that at least one of them is sober.

 

The bartender is eyeing him nervously, like she’s wondering when she should cut him off, and Sam can’t blame her, based on the sheer quantity of alcohol he’s consumed. He himself has no idea how much Steve can take, so he just catches her eyes and shrugs apologetically for what feels like the fifth time.

 

They mostly sit in silence until he’s finished with his bottle. He asks for another one. Sam decides to keep his mouth shut; he’s not the one with the credit card and he’s not the one who will be hung over.

 

But he is the one who has to deal with it when Steve (fairly tipsily, as far as Sam can tell) starts talking.

 

“I guess I can get drunk,” he mumbles. It doesn’t really seem to be directed at Sam, so Sam doesn’t respond. Steve pauses a beat, then keeps talking.

 

“I’m just,” he gestures vaguely and frowns, then takes another swig of vodka. “This is all so.” He swallows hard. “I don’t know how this happened, we were just _kids_ and I have to fix this, Sam, there aren’t any other options for me. I’ve gotta fix it.”

 

Sam struggles for a minute with the urge to just say that it’ll be okay, they’ll fix it, but he knows it’s more complicated than that, that you can’t fix human beings and you shouldn’t try. He knows the person Steve meets if - when? - they do find Bucky again will not be the person he knew seventy years ago. But he knows that now, when Steve’s drunk and tired and sad, is not the time to talk about that. That’s a conversation when they’re both stone cold sober. That conversation would not go well if he were to try and have it right now.

 

So instead he just hums sympathetically.

 

Steve’s a bit maudlin, once he’s past the tipsy stage.

 

“I’m angry,” he finally says, loud and echoing in the almost-empty bar. “I’m so angry that this happened and that I couldn’t stop it and I didn’t know and that people actually thought it was okay to do that to another human being, and Nazis still exist, Sam, what the fuck? What the actual fuck?”

 

Sam knows that he’s already let it get too far, but he does his best to head Steve off before he really picks up steam. “Steve, please, calm down. I know you’re upset right now but I really need you to be calm because you’re starting to scare people.”

 

Steve blinks at him, and for a moment Sam thinks that he’s gotten through to him, that Steve is going to stop yelling angrily about everything that’s wrong with the world (which, to be fair, is a whole fucking lot), but no, of course the universe isn’t gonna take it easy on him now.

 

“I haven’t been calm in years Sam, _years_.”

 

The glass breaks in Steve’s hand and the room is suddenly very, very quiet, and there’s blood dripping off the table and before Sam quite knows what he’s doing, he’s stood up and said quietly to Steve, “I think we should go now.”

 

Steve stays quiet, but he’s breathing hard.

 

He quickly settles the tab with the bartender, plus some extra for the broken glass. She waves off his offer to help clean up, and he thanks her again before they leave.

 

Steve doesn’t say anything to him all the way back to the hotel room - through the lobby, in the elevator, and down the hall he just follows Sam silently. But there’s a defiant air to him Sam doesn’t like one bit, something in the way he’s jutting his chin out and squaring his shoulders that says he’s getting ready for a fight.

 

By this time, Sam is angry, too. He’s known for weeks that Steve was going to lose his cool at some point, but he’s angry at him for doing it publicly, and he’s angry at him for - well, a lot of things.

 

“All right, now that you’re good and drunk, have some water,” he says sharply, grabbing a water bottle and tossing it to Steve just a little too hard. “Wouldn’t want you to be hung over in the morning.”

 

“I won’t be hung over,” Steve retorts. “Besides, you’re not my goddamn babysitter.”

 

“That’s right, I’m not,” agrees Sam. “I’m also not your fucking therapist.”

 

“Good, because I never asked you to be.”

 

That one stings more than it probably should. “I can only take so much shit, Steve,” Sam starts, “and the last few weeks have been nothing but shit, you know that?” He knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

 

“You have no fucking idea, Sam. The last few _years_ have been nothing but shit for me! Even before the war, Bucky and I were barely scraping by and then Bucky goes off and enlists without me, trying to get himself killed, and then he does. He dies and I crash into the fucking Arctic, and then I wake up in the shiny new future, where everything’s supposed to be so good and free and perfect, but it’s not! It’s horrible and corrupt, so what am I supposed to do? Just ignore it and move on while hundreds of thousands of people are killed? And now Bucky’s in the wind and he wants me to find him, I know he does, but I’m too slow with you weighing me down and, fuck Sam, you have no idea what it’s like. No fucking idea.”

 

Sam nods slowly, face calm and blank. “You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to wake up in a different century and I sure as hell don’t know what it’s like to find out my best friend’s actually alive.” His voice goes hard, a bite of steel. “But you’re not the only one that’s lost someone. You’re not the only one that’s hurting. And lashing out at me for trying to help is childish and stupid. So you should go to bed now, before you say something else that you’ll regret.”

 

Steve feels like he’s paralyzed, like he can’t get his tongue to form the words of apology he wants to throw at Sam’s feet.

 

“I - uh. Sam,” he finally gets out, pleading, but Sam cuts him off before he can get any farther.

 

“Please, Steve. Just go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says, soft and quiet. He pulls his shirt over his head, puts on some pajama pants and slips into bed. He doesn’t feel drunk anymore.

 

He doesn’t sleep very well that night, and is woken up around three by Sam’s quiet tears. Steve squeezes his eyes shut tight and wills his bone deep exhaustion to pull him back into sleep.

 

 

 

Steve wakes up early the next morning, like he always used to when he’d been drinking. He lays awake in bed for a few long minutes, staring at the ceiling, until he gathers his motivation and sits up, stretching. True to his word, he isn’t hung over; he feels a bit dehydrated, but nothing a glass of OJ and some breakfast won’t fix.

 

Breakfast. He glances over at Sam, who is still sound asleep on his own bed. He’s even snoring a little, which Steve thinks is cute.

 

Steve gets out of bed and gets dressed as quietly as he knows how - Sam’s a light sleeper too - and grabs his phone, a motel key, and his wallet before slipping out the door.

 

The convenience store down the street has everything he needs, and he’s pleased that when he gets back, Sam is still sleeping, right where he left him, until he wakes up to the sound of eggs and bacon frying on the stove in the little kitchenette.

 

“Mmmm, do I smell an apology breakfast?” Sam mumbles, rolling over and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

 

Steve flushes guiltily and flips the bacon. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Uh, about that.”

 

Sam sits up and stretches luxuriously, then swings his feet over the side of the bed and stands. “Well,” he says, “if your bacon is good it might make up for it a little, but I’m gonna need the kind of apology that comes with a side of words, too.”

 

“Right,” Steve says. “Well, the bacon’s done, so let’s get the verdict on that and go from there.”

 

Things aren’t exactly tense between them, but they pass most of breakfast in a slightly less than companionable silence. Steve whisks Sam’s plate away from him before he can stand up to clear it himself and does the dishes, whistling nervously.

 

When he turns around, Sam is still sitting at the table, hands folded in front of him and looking up at Steve expectantly.

 

“Bacon passes,” he says. “Acceptable, but it could be crispier.”

 

“You could have said,” says Steve, gesturing at the table, but Sam shrugs. “It was a test, man,” he says. “Not crispy enough. So anyways,” he continues. “I’m considering that like, half an apology. Maybe.”

 

Steve plops down in one of the rickety chairs, which groans ominously under his weight. He’s just close enough to Sam to lean over and press their shoulders together, so he does. “Well, y’know, I _am_ sorry. I know it’s been rough, for both of us, but I guess I’ve been too focused on getting Bucky back to really notice how worn down we both are. And, uh, I’ve been so caught up ignoring my own problems that I forgot you’ve been through some shit too. So, yeah, I’m sorry about that.”

 

“Well, that’s the understatement of the century,” Sam says wryly. He stops there, leaving the floor open for Steve to say more. So Steve scuffs his toes against the dirty old carpet and clears his throat.

 

“I know you’re not my therapist,” he finally says. “I mean. I hope I haven’t given you that impression, because that’s...shitty. Really shitty. And I’m sorry if I have, ‘cause that’s not it at all. Your friendship is really important to me, Sam.”

 

“You know what else should be important? Your own health. Mental, physical, emotional - that shit isn’t something you can just fuck around with. You need to take care of yourself first, and _then_ you can deal with other people’s problems.”

 

“I know I just said you’re not my therapist, but you _do_ sound like a therapist,” Steve mumbles mulishly.

 

“No, uh-uh, I sound like a friend concerned for his friend’s mental health,” Sam retorts sharply. “Jesus, Steve, have you ever even had a friend?”

 

Steve opens his mouth to respond with something sarcastic, like “We’re literally hunting down my best friend so, yeah, I’d say I’ve had a friend,” but Sam cuts him off before he can do anything more than open his mouth.

 

“And I’m not talking about attached at the hip, known each other all your lives, would literally -or have literally- taken a bullet for each other. Because that’s not friendship – that’s codependency. I mean, have you ever had a _friend_ \- someone you can talk to and hang out with and someone that notices when something’s wrong and does favors for you like watching your cat while you’re on vacation or helping you move into a new place?”

 

Steve blinks. “Uh, Natasha?” he says, but Sam can hear the question mark on the end of the sentence.

 

Sam shakes his head. “If you’re not sure, that means you’re probably not to the watching each others’ cats stages. Not yet, anyways. But you and I, I’m pretty sure we’re friends. And that’s a two-way street, Rogers.”

 

“You’re right, it is,” says Steve, “and… lately, it’s really been a one-way street.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve never asked you about Riley.”

 

Sam shrugs a little, half-heartedly. “I mean,” he says, not meeting Steve’s eyes. “It’s… it happened a long time ago, and…” he breaks off, rubbing the back of his head and dropping his gaze. “It’s still hard to talk about, I guess.”

 

“It’s not something I dwell on every day anymore,” he continues. “It’s just fresh right now, you know? I’m watching you trying to find your best friend, except you actually have a chance, and I wish it didn’t hurt to be reminded of where I was a few years ago, but it really fucking does. The way you have a good day and things seem to be looking up, and then you backslide and it seems like nothing will ever be right again. I’ve been there. It’s never pretty, but that’s just how recovery goes, and I guess I’m just… reliving that a bit, right now.”

  
Steve doesn’t have the words for the tight feeling in his throat, so he reaches for Sam’s hand instead. Sam takes it and squeezes hard.

 

 

 

They’re at a slightly less shitty motel somewhere near the Grand Canyon when Sam asks him the question that Steve’s been dreading for weeks now.

 

“So. Have you found anything that makes you happy yet?”

 

And Steve, without thinking, without considering the implications, opens his big mouth and says the first thing and only thing that comes to mind. “You.”

 

Shit. Shit shit shit, he didn’t mean to say that. Sam’s not supposed to ever find out about Steve’s massive crush on him. Shit.

 

But Sam, instead of reacting with disgust or politely letting him down, just smiles, eyes crinkling up at the corners and looking incredibly pleased.

  
Steve is doomed.

 

 

 

It’s an exceptionally hot day, and it takes Sam about two seconds to realize that something isn’t right with Steve.

 

They’re checking into tonight’s tiny motel of choice, and they’re both tired and discouraged; Natasha had called while Sam was driving (the first time they’d heard from her in _days_ ) only to tell them that she didn’t have any leads. Sam could hear snippets of their conversation from the driver’s seat, and she sounded defeated herself. Steve talked with her for a few minutes, mostly to ask her how she was doing, but Natasha wasn’t often in the mood for long-winded idle chatter, and it didn’t last long. Steve hadn’t said much to him since, but Sam hadn’t thought anything of it.

 

Now, he’s reconsidering. Steve is fairly terrible at pretending not to be upset, to anyone who’s paying attention. He tosses his duffel bag on the bed he’s claimed as his, and turns to Sam.

 

“I’m going for a run,” he says. He’s visibly jittery and not willing to meet Sam’s eyes.

 

Sam raises his eyebrows. “You ran this morning,” he pointed out. Steve just shrugs.

 

“So?” he says, almost defensively. “Long day in the car. I wouldn’t mind running again.”

 

“Look, are you alright, Steve?” Sam starts. “You seem….” he trails off, looking for a word. “Anxious,” he finally settles on.

 

Steve takes a deep breath and puffs up his shoulders, clearly preparing to go on the defensive, and then he visibly drops it and just deflates, dropping his gaze and pulling his shoulders in as if to make himself smaller.

 

“Um,” he says. “I.” He stops and shakes his head. In a stunning contrast to just a few minutes before, he now looks achingly tired.

 

“Come here and sit down, and tell me about it,” suggests Sam, gesturing to the bed and sitting down himself, patting the spot next to him.

 

Steve shakes his head again. “Don’t wanna talk,” he mumbles, but he’s already moving closer to the bed to sit down, and that’s a start.

 

Sam can’t bring himself to push it. “Just sit, then.” Steve does, closer to Sam than he usually would, almost close enough that their shoulders are touching.

 

They sit silently for a few minutes, until Steve leans into Sam’s shoulder a little. That’s all the invitation Sam needs to slide an arm around Steve’s waist. He notices that Steve is shaking, just the tiniest bit.

 

“I’m so tired, Sam,” he finally mutters. “I just wanna… I dunno. Sleep, I guess. Lay down and not get up for a while.”

 

“So lay down,” Sam says, and he’s guiding Steve’s head to rest in his lap. Steve stretches a little, settles, then closes his eyes.

 

 

 

Steve doesn’t really sleep so much as he drifts, only kind of anchored by the feeling of someone’s hand carding through his hair. He feels deeply lethargic, his limbs feel heavy, and everything is pretty hazy.

 

Which isn’t so bad, really. It doesn’t hurt.

 

He’ll just stay here a while.

 

 

 

Sam sits with Steve for nearly two hours before his bladder makes it necessary for him to get up. He carefully supports Steve’s head with his hands and wiggles out from underneath it, replacing his thighs with a (woefully inadequate) pillow.

 

He hasn’t had much to do but think for the last few hours, and his conclusions are mostly that he and Steve have some things to talk about.

 

Steve’s awake when he emerges from the bathroom, hair mussed adorably and still blinking sleepily.

 

“Sorry,” Sam murmurs, sitting down next to him again. Steve immediately curls into him, and Sam rests a hand between his shoulderblades.

 

“Feeling better?” he asks.

 

“Mm.” Steve nods, face resting against Sam’s shoulder.

 

“Steve,” Sam begins tentatively. “I know we’re traveling right now, but…. I was thinking, when we get back to DC, you should see someone. I have this friend - she’s a _great_ therapist. You’d really like her.”

 

Sam pauses for a minute, waiting for Steve to answer. When he doesn’t, Sam continues.

 

“It’s just a suggestion,” he says. “I just want you to think about it. But I really think it would help.”

 

Steve’s still silent.

 

“Steve, I-”

 

“No, you’re right,” Steve says finally, slowly. “I haven’t been okay in….a long time. Mostly, I’m not so much okay as I have my shit together, because I have to.”

 

“It’s okay to not be okay, Steve,” Sam says quietly.

 

Steve just turns into Sam and rests his face against his chest and breathes while Sam rubs his back. If Sam’s shirt is a little wet when they finally part, neither of them mention it.

 

So maybe Steve isn’t fine, but according to Sam, that’s okay, so he’s just gonna go with it for now.

 

 

 

They’ve had nothing to go on since Natasha called, and that’s been a few days ago. No leads, no sightings, nothing. They took a few days to lay low and rest, but now Steve’s anxious to be on the road again, and they’ve got their bags packed and are checking out of their motel with no clear direction in mind.

 

“So,” Steve says to Sam as he slides into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

 

Sam’s silent for a minute. “Well,” he says. “What about the coast? I hear Oregon is nice this year.”

 

Steve shrugs and says “all right,” surprising Sam, and pulls out onto the highway.

 

It takes them three days to get to Oregon, and when they do, they drive straight to a tiny town on the water and, by some unspoken agreement, rent a house for a few days. They’ve both had enough of motels and uncomfortable beds and no leads.

 

Steve tosses his duffel bag on the bed in the first bedroom, which is predictably blue and decorated with a nautical theme, and heads straight for the beach, kicking off his shoes. They have a nice little patio out back of the house, surrounded by dune grass, that overlooks the water. Steve completely bypasses it in favor of burying his toes in the sand.

 

Sam stops to watch him for just a minute, smiling fondly, before he walks to the store next door to stock their fridge. He’s so tired of fast food.

 

When he gets back, Steve’s standing knee deep in the ocean.

 

The logical thing to do is put the groceries away as fast as possible and join him, so Sam does.

 

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” he says as he wades into the waves. “The water is fucking _freezing_. Or did you not notice?”

 

Steve just shrugs, and his shirt’s so tight Sam can see the muscles in his back move. As Sam reaches Steve and stands next to him, not sure he can feel his feet anymore (maybe that’s how Steve’s been standing out here this long), he glances over at Steve and notices that he looks more relaxed than he has in weeks.

 

“I haven’t been to the beach in a long time,” murmurs Sam. “This is nice.” The sun is starting to set over the water, and it’s like every cheesy rom com Sam has ever watched, but in a good way.

 

Apparently the feeling is mutual, because Steve reaches out and takes Sam’s hand and they stand there until it gets dark and then some, watching the stars come out.

 

 

 

Sam wakes up to the smell of eggs and bacon; Steve’s making breakfast, and Sam has a clear (and very nice) view from where they’d slept tangled together on the couch. So much for the plush beds that were upstairs, but Sam has a feeling they might have been too soft anyways.

 

“Morning,” Steve says softly. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

 

“Aw, you spoil me, Steve,” says Sam, teasing, and he’s rewarded by Steve’s spectacular blushing. Steve doesn’t say anything, just dishes him up a plate and sets it on the table for when he gets back from the bathroom.

 

They’re halfway through a companionable, but silent, breakfast, Sam’s ankles intertwined with Steve’s, when Steve’s phone rings.

 

The atmosphere in the room suddenly becomes tense; Steve answers the call immediately, and Sam can tell from the voice on the other end that it’s Natasha.

 

“Yeah,” he says urgently. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. What for?” He frowns. “Okay. Be there ASAP. Take care of yourself, Nat.”

 

He stands up.

 

“Natasha wants us back in DC, Sam,” he says grimly. “She wouldn’t say why, just says she needs to meet us.”

 

“Well,” Sam says. “We’d better get going.”

 

They book the soonest flights out of the Eugene airport and Sam sells his little green Prius at the dealership in town, completely ignoring Steve’s protests (“I can buy another car, Steve.”)

 

By the next day, they’re back in DC and Natasha is picking them up at the airport, raising her eyebrow at their mode of travel.

 

“You know if you’d called Stark he would have sent you a jet, right?”

 

Steve shrugs. “You said it wasn’t life or death urgent, so I figured we wouldn’t bother him.” He won’t admit it to Natasha, but he hadn’t been entirely comfortable asking Tony for a favor of that magnitude, even if it would have been nothing to him.

 

Natasha refuses to talk about her reasons for meeting them until they’re sitting in the kitchen at Sam’s place, crowded around the tiny table.

 

“Barnes contacted me,” she says without any preamble. “He wants me to tell you that he’s safe, and that you should stop looking for him. When he’s ready, he’ll come to you.”

 

Steve’s silent for a long, terrible minute.

 

“He wanted me to be sure you know,” continues Natasha, softly, “that it’s not your fault. He _will_ come to you, Steve. He just needs time.”

 

Steve nods. His throat is too tight; he doesn’t trust himself to say anything, so he just nods.

 

“Okay,” he finally manages to whisper.

 

He desperately wants to be alone, so he retreats to the guest bedroom and closes the door and leans against it for a moment. He crosses to the window and looks out onto DC, wondering if Bucky is out there, somewhere. That’s too overwhelming, so he sits on the bed and stares at his hands.

 

He has no idea how much time passes, but eventually someone knocks on the door.

 

“Come in,” he answers without really thinking, and then Natasha slips into the room and sits down next to him.

 

“Hey,” she says, bumping his upper arm with her shoulder. He forgets how small she is, sometimes.

 

“Hey,” he says back. He tries to smile but it feels wrong so he sighs instead.

 

She nudges his shoulder again. “You okay?”

 

He shrugs.

 

She shrugs too. “I know that seems like kind of a pointless question, but it’s the thing to say, right?”

 

He glances at her and realizes that she’s trying it - being a friend. He smiles for real this time.

 

“Guess so,” he agrees. “Got a couple questions for you.”

 

“I figured you would.” Nat’s smiling too, the small, secretive kind. “Fire away, Cap.”

 

“I’ll start with the obvious one. How is he?” Steve asks. Natasha is silent for a moment, chewing on her lip.

 

“I think he’s as good as we can hope for him to be,” she finally says. “He seems fine. Uninjured, you know. Clearly found some new clothes and someplace to take a shower.” She hesitates. “He seems to remember some things at least. Seemed a little stressed, to be honest, but he said he was okay. I believe him, Steve.”

 

Steve nods, scrubbing at his face with his hand. “If you believe him, I believe you,” he says, although it feels like a colossal effort.

 

She nods, resting a hand on his knee.

 

“Okay. Question two.” Steve takes a deep breath. “Why did he come to you?”

 

Natasha tenses up, almost imperceptible if Steve hadn’t known her. “He said he wasn’t ready to see you yet,” she says, which is what she already told him.

 

“I know,” says Steve. “I guess… I can kind of understand why. I mean, considering the last time we met.” He winces. “But that’s not what I meant.”

 

Natasha considers him solemnly. “What did you mean, then?” she asks.

 

“Why you, specifically?”

 

Natasha doesn’t answer him; Steve’s about to say something when she finally clears her throat.

 

“The Winter Soldier and I...had a history. Our encounter in Odessa wasn’t the only time I met him.” She pauses. “I’d rather not talk about it. But I believe he may have memories of the Black Widow, and if I had to guess, that, combined with my association with you, and our shared experiences,” she says it as though the words taste sour, “led him to contact me.”

 

“He trusts you to understand why he doesn’t want me trying to find him.”

 

“Something like that,” agrees Natasha.

 

“Why didn’t you say something before? About...knowing him.”

 

“Really, Steve,” Natasha rolls her eyes, but she smiles at him too, wryly. “He tried to kill Nick. I didn’t want to put more on the table than was necessary.”

 

“Fair enough,” says Steve, shrugging.

 

“Does that answer your questions?” Natasha asks.

 

“Yeah,” says Steve.

 

“Good,” says Natasha decisively, “because I don’t want to talk about Bucky Barnes anymore. I bet you’ve done nothing else for weeks. I want to talk about you. How are you?”

 

“Better.” She raises an eyebrow at him disbelievingly. “Yeah. I mean, you know, a little.” He looks at her accusingly. “You’ve been talking to Sam.”

 

Natasha shrugs. “He was worried about you,” she says matter-of-factly. “We both were.”

 

“I can take care of myself, you know.”

 

Natasha snorts. “Yeah, I know,” she says. “As long as you’d stop destroying government agencies for five minutes.”

 

“That was one time,” Steve protests, trying not to laugh. It’s too late; he’s got a terrible poker face and Natasha is already giggling.

 

“How bout you?” he asks when the laughter has died down. “You done anything exciting lately? Torn down government agencies, rescued undercover agents in distress….”

 

Natasha grins at him. “Clint’s fine, if a little grumpy that all of his covers blew in the middle of his op,” she tells him. “Minor injuries, he’ll be all right.”

  

Steve winces. “I really should apologize for that, probably. D’you think a bouquet of flowers would do it?”

 

Natasha shrugs. “He likes lilies.”

 

“Okay, but you didn’t answer my question,” Steve says. “How are you?”

 

“You know,” says Natasha, smiling warmly. “I’m pretty good. This being a friend thing. It’s kinda nice.”

 

“You’re good at it,” Steve tells her sincerely.

 

“It helps that I’ve got a few new covers in place too,” adds Natasha, smirking. “Nothing like a few fake identities to make a girl’s day.”

 

Steve laughs. “Black Widow’s a household name these days. I hope you’ve got some good disguises.”

 

Natasha grins at him. “I always did like a challenge.”

 

 

 

 

Natasha leaves late, declining their offer to stay over, saucily telling them she’s got “places to be, boys.” She leaves Sam and Steve in the kitchen, with a kiss on each of their cheeks, drinking a late night mug of tea.

 

“So,” says Sam. “You okay with this?”

 

“What, waiting for Bucky to come to us?” Steve shrugs. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I thought it’d be easy, but yeah, I guess.”

 

“So, what are you gonna do now?” Sam asks. “I mean, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. Take some time off. Whatever.”

 

“I guess I was thinking I’d go back to that question you asked me a while back.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“The one about what makes me happy.”

 

“Oh yeah, that one.” Sam pauses. “You got any ideas about that?”

 

Steve smiles at him and reaches across the table to grab his hand. “I’ve got some ideas,” he says. “Art, I’ve been thinking I’d like to get back into drawing. Maybe trying every restaurant within a ten block radius of this apartment, because food is pretty great. I’m a fan of Star Trek, I hear there’s lots of different series to get through.” He pauses. “I’m pretty sure you’re on that list, too, and if I’m gonna try all the restaurants around here, I’m gonna need somebody to go with me.”

 

“I can see the headlines now,” says Sam. “Captain America spotted eating alone in restaurant.” He squeezes Steve’s hand.

 

“That would be embarrassing,” agrees Steve.

 

“So, are you asking me on a date?”

 

“I’m asking you on like, ten dates at least.”

 

“Oh, ten dates? You drive a hard bargain, Cap.”

 

“I’ll buy you ice cream.”

 

“Deal.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! We are on Tumblr at [margaretrogers](www.margaretrogers.tumblr.com) and [foreverboybucky](www.foreverboybucky.tumblr.com).


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